Thaw
by Messr. Moony the Wolf
Summary: So this is what happens when the Winter Soldier is left out of cryo-freeze for too long. Warning: MAJOR spoilers for Captain America: The Winter Soldier. Rated T for language.


**AN: Hello friends. I just watched Captain America: The Winter Soldier and I'm emotionally compromised and need to write something to calm myself down so here we go. Just a little thing I had an idea for as I was leaving the theater. Enjoy!**

**Warning: There are some serious Winter Soldier spoilers in here, so DO NOT READ if you are planning on seeing the movie in the future and don't want to learn anything unwillingly. Also, there is a bit of language; not a lot, but a couple of f-bombs get dropped. Don't read if you have an issue with that.**

* * *

Thaw

_The scrawny boy brushed himself off, looking disgruntled. "I had him on the ropes."_

_He snorted. " 'Course you did." He stretched out a hand, pulled the kid off the ground. "How many times this week Steve? You're trying to get yourself killed I swear."_

He grunted and shook his head as he pulled himself back to present. The flashbacks, or whatever they were, were starting to get annoying. Every few minutes, it seemed, something would drag him away from the dark gray asphalt below his feet and into a world he remembered clearly but felt completely disconnected from.

Stepping into the shade of a large tree, he pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, trying to dispel the throbbing behind them. Damn flashbacks always left him with a hellish headache.

The pain was confusing. It was not caused by any injury, but by his own body betraying him. It hadn't done that before.

At least, not that he could remember. And apparently he couldn't remember much.

Pulling his hands away from his face, he blinked several times to adjust to the sunlight and tugged nervously on the left sleeve of his jacket to make sure that his metal arm was completely covered. No need to be discovered now, not when he was finally free to sift through his tortured mind.

When his eyes finally adjusted, he looked around, instinctively checking for threats and good spots to conceal himself.

_Tower at my 2 o'clock, watch for concealed snipers; large columns dead ahead, could be concealing hostiles; large crowd – anyone could be watching…_

Frowning, he forced himself out of the military haze and actually looked at the buildings around him. His brain supplied him with his location; the National Mall, Washington D.C., United States of America. Specifically, he was standing before the famed Smithsonian Museum, where huge crowds visited daily to view 'fascinating' historical artifacts.

He was about to walk away, when a huge banner hanging from the front of the museum caught his eye. Standing out against the fairly monochrome buildings with its vibrant red, white, and blue color scheme, it advertised "COME VIEW OUR NEWEST EXHIBIT – CAPTAIN AMERICA: THE LIVING LEGEND – TO LEARN ABOUT THE GREATEST SOLDIER IN OUR HISTORY."

He wasn't aware he'd decided to go in until he realized his legs were carrying him briskly across the open plaza. Tugging his baseball cap further down on his head, he hunched his shoulders slightly and walked a bit more loosely, trying to blend in with the crowd. He snatched a tourist map as he walked by a stand offering free brochures, and pretended to study it, looking around until his eyes alighted on the building with the banner. Folding the map and shoving it in his pocket, he moved towards the entrance with purpose, but not aggressively. Ugh, how he hated to blend in.

Going through museum security was an experience. The moment he saw the metal detector, he panicked. When the guard asked him to step through he stuttered for a moment before finally managing to blurt out,

"I, I have had a surgery. There is metal in my arm and it will set off the detector. Is there another way?" The guard sighed and called to a coworker, pointing at the man and saying something about a pat down. The second guard led him over to a sectioned off area and proceeded to briskly pat his hands all over the man's body. He had to force down the instinctive feeling of _wrong, enemy, stop him, stop him NOW _and let the man finish. He was only doing his job, and it was necessary to get in.

After a few seconds, the guard stepped back and said,

"You're all clear. Go on through to the museum and please enjoy yourself." The man nodded and slipped away, melting into the crowd. He looked around at some of the other exhibits, but always moved closer and closer to the one he was here for.

When he finally stepped into the special exhibition, he was a bit disgusted. The sheer volume of American flags, pro-America propaganda, and red, white, and blue was absolutely disgusting. But he forced himself in further, examining the artifacts, and trying not to panic when each one triggered a flashback.

There was an old motorbike, charred and damaged.

_An image of the man from the bridge, his mission, the so-called Captain America driving that bike through the woods and into a HYDRA compound, allowing it to crash into the doors and explode, gaining access for his troops._

A picture of a scrawny kid, labeled "Steve Rogers, Pre-Serum."

_His arm slung around the same scrawny boy, offering him a flyer and announcing they were headed "To the future!"_

A photograph of a beautiful woman with the caption "Agent Peggy Carter."

_He was sitting with Captain America in a bar, in Britain, and the Captain was asking him to come along, to do something dangerous. He agreed, albeit reluctantly, but was cut off by a gorgeous woman who walked right by him to address his best friend. Jealousy stabbed through him, but he just smirked and made a joke when she walked away._

A dated photograph of an apartment with the note "Steve Rogers' Brooklyn apartment (photo from 1946)"

_They were wearing suits, and he was desperately trying to convince the stupid, scrawny idiot to let him stay the night because he needed to make sure that he would be okay and that he wouldn't do something stupid like throw himself out the window. And when the kid continued to refuse as he fumbled around for his key, he pulled out the spare from under the brick because he knew this boy better then he knew himself and he'd be dammed if anything were to happen to him._

The man reeled back from the photograph, stunned and alarmed by the overwhelming emotions he'd felt. There had been so many emotions and now he felt lost and confused; how did people react to emotions? What was he supposed to do?

In a daze, the man turned around and stopped dead in his tracks. Before him was a large panel, easily as tall as two of him, with a name, birth and death dates, and a description of his relationship to the captain. But it was the name and the huge photograph accompanying it that stopped him dead in his tracks.

"James Buchanan 'Bucky' Barnes."

The photograph was of him.

That was his face up on that massive panel, his own eyes starting down at him. More memories came flooding back, assaulting him with more and more emotion until he finally screwed his eyes shut in an attempt to make it _fucking stop already!_

He was about to turn and flee from this confusing discovery, but a hand on his shoulder stopped him. It was firm, unyielding, and his instinct was to shove its owner across the room and bolt. A familiar voice stopped him.

"I can honestly say that I wasn't expecting to find you here. Actually, I wasn't expecting to find you at all."

The Winter Soldier (not Bucky, he couldn't be Bucky, Bucky was a good man, a friend, and he was awful, he was a monster) sucked in a deep breath, gathering his confused thoughts as best he could, and managed to formulate a response:

"Кажется немного высокомерный, чтобы показать в своем собственном мемориала."

"I think I'm going to need you to run that by me again, maybe in English this time." He could actually hear the confused frown in that painfully familiar voice and he had to force himself to speak and not get distracted.

"I said, it seems a bit arrogant to show up to your own memorial," he repeated quietly. He heard a snort of amusement.

"I could say the same to you," the other man pointed out as he gently tugged on the Winter Soldier's shoulder. The assassin complied willingly, allowing himself to be turned to face Steve Rogers, in the flesh. There was a long pause.

"Good to see you Buck," Steve eventually murmured. "You know, not dead and all."

"You already saw me and knew I wasn't dead," he couldn't resist pointing out. Rogers looked him in the eye.

"Yes but that wasn't you. That was the Winter Soldier trying to kill me. You are Bucky Barnes, my best friend who is going to come with me to lunch so we can get you off the CIA most wanted list and help you start adjusting to the modern day." The Winter Soldier started away from the blonde American in surprise.

"What the hell is wrong with you? Haven't you realized it yet? I. Am. Not. Your. Friend. Maybe I was but that was a long time ago. I'm a weapon now, a tool for raising empires and bringing them down in a single, swift strike. You can't make me human because I'm not a human anymore. I'm a machine."

Without a word, the Captain's face hardened and he grabbed the assassin's arm, dragging him out of the exhibit. He continued to pull his once-friend through the museum, all the way out into the open air of the National Mall. But he didn't stop there. No, he yanked the other man all the way into a back alley before throwing him towards a wall, face contorted in anger.

"Now you listen to me. I know you're not a machine, I know you're not just the Winter Soldier. Do you want to know how I know that? You stopped, on that bridge. I called you Bucky and you stopped yourself from killing me. You wouldn't kill me in that Helicarrier, even when I threw my shield away, lied there, and _let you try_. Someone pulled me out of that river and I'd bet my life it was you because who else would have survived that fall? And here you are, in civilian clothes, running away from HYDRA instead of straight back to them and standing the middle of the fucking Smithsonian in the middle of the same city you just tore to pieces so that you can look at the Captain America exhibit because you know, somewhere in that broken head of yours, that _you are Bucky Barnes._"

The alley was silent. The Winter Soldier could hear muffled chatter from the people out on the Mall, but it was irrelevant. The only thing that was important was the blonde wall of muscle, a national icon, trembling before him. He wasn't looking at Captain America. Oh no, this was Steven G. Rogers, the little kid from Brooklyn who never said no to a fight, even if it meant getting the shit beat out of him several times a day. And this man was trembling, his face flickering with anger and frustration and sadness and the once-cold assassin didn't know what to do. But that face, rippling with emotion, suddenly dragged up even more memories, and, finally, one that blocked out all the others.

_He was a little kid, playing around in the street, chasing cars as the drove by, much to their drivers' amusement. He was having a great time, even if he was a little lonely, when he heard some kids' voices in the next alley over. Thinking they were playing a game, he bounded over with a big grin on his face. When he turned the corner, he skidded to a halt in confusion._

_There was a group of two or three boys, about his age crowded around a tiny blonde boy. The little blonde was huddled in a ball in the corner of the alley, and, as Bucky watched, the older boys hurled insults at him and kicked whatever part of his tiny body they could reach. The little boy was trying to fight back, but he was too small and too weak to actually discourage the older boys. Bucky felt a wave of anger rise up in him._

"_Hey!" he yelled as loud as he could, startling the other boys. "Why don't you pick on someone your own size!?"_

_The three bullies, alarmed by the shouting and afraid of getting in trouble, fled past Bucky as fast as they could run. Bucky moved forward and helped the little boy to his feet._

"_Are you okay?" he asked the tiny kid._

"_Yeah, I'm fine. They've been meaner," he admitted. "Thanks for helping me, by the way."_

"_Anytime," said Bucky, and he meant it. "I'm Bucky Barnes. Who're you?"_

"_Steve Rogers."_

"_Sarah's kid?"_

"_Yeah, that's me. She hasn't been looking for me, has she?" Steve asked, suddenly looking terrified. Bucky laughed._

"_Don't worry kid, you're not in trouble yet. My mom knows Miss Sarah. I can walk you home, if you want." Steve looked up at him and smiled so big it seemed to cover his whole face._

"_I'd like that a lot. Thanks Bucky."_

He sucked in a huge breath as he forcefully pulled himself out of the memory. In barely a second, the real world came rushing back. He was sitting on the asphalt in an alley in Washington, D.C. and Steve Rogers was standing over him, concern and alarm written across his face. Rogers was gently shaking his shoulder.

"Hey, hey are you okay? Do you need to go to a hospital or something?" The man shook his head, still breathing deeply.

"No, I'm not going anywhere near a hospital. I'm not sick, I – I just – I – I saved you when we were kids." He hadn't meant to blurt it out like that, but the look on Steve's face was priceless – confusion mixed with insane happiness.

"You were a scrawny kid, and you kept getting in fights. You got pissed off when I rescued you, but I kept doing it because I didn't want you to die on me. You were my best friend, only friend really, and I helped you try and get girls and kept trying to tell you that enlisting in the damn army was a bad idea and hey, look at that I was fucking right wasn't I?" Now that he'd started, he couldn't seem to stop blurting out random memories of Steve and him from all those years ago. It was oddly cleansing, to let all the emotion from the memories, from _his _memories flow freely through his lips and roll over his face. Steve just stood there, barely breathing, shock written across his face, as the man on the ground practically retold their life story in a series of fractured images and feelings. When he finally stopped to breathe, Steve didn't move, still too stunned to even think about responding. The other man took one more deep breath and looked his best friend in the eye.

"Thank you. You helped me get free from HYDRA, something I never could have done on my own." He hesitated for a second before plunging on.

"I am Bucky Barnes. I remember."

And apparently that was all it took for the fearless, untouchable Captain America to fall to his knees before his best friend and throw his arms around him. Bucky could feel Steve's body shaking, could feel the dampness of tears on his neck, and felt tears threaten to spill over onto his own face.

"Oh God, Bucky I missed you so much. I woke up and you were gone and so was everything else and I was so alone and I just…" Steve managed to mumble out between gasping sobs, and Bucky felt the tears finally win out and begin to run down his face in earnest.

"Shh, hey, it's alright buddy. I'm here now. Don't you worry Steve; I'm not going anywhere. Not ever again."


End file.
